


the end is the beginning is the

by minorthirds



Category: Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Gen, basically the trashbin for my feelings, don't take this as canon, heavy on headcanon, i don't frickin know, spoilers herein, that might be retconned later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a series of collected drabbles written in correspondence with the first playthrough of the game. amount of canon varies. spoilers herein. [viii. daddy's got the blues.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. he should have known

**Author's Note:**

> this is all unedited trash whoops
> 
> spoilers ahead
> 
> i don't know how to tag this i'm literally just drabbling my feelings
> 
> this one has implied noehopu
> 
> that's it that's the thing

he pulls his hands from the keyboard,

sits back,

looks up at the sky -

the blend of almost dusty gray clouds, rainbow refractions between the yawning jagged segments of the shell of Bhunivelze (the planet, not the god) -

and whispers, very quietly, so quietly the microphone does not pick up his words and transmit them to Lightning’s ear,

"why am I not surprised?"

He can’t even pretend to be - of course he can’t really feel surprised but that’s beside the fact.

It’s good to see that he’s - alive, at least. Maybe not well, but alive. And isn’t that all that can be hoped for, really? Because who is well?

Certainly he isn’t. He can’t even feel to know if he isn’t.

But he’s distracting himself from the matter at hand. Which is -

"the Shadow Hunter" -

\- Noel Kreiss, and it’s a force of habit, this distraction. He doesn’t need to do it, but it’s a tic carried over from when he could have actual misgivings about things.

This seems like the type of thing he would have misgivings over, the whole “Noel wants to murder Lightning in cold blood” reveal, but the kinds of things he remembers, is remembering -

his smell, his smile, his words his ambitions filed away on the sixteen terabyte storage facility that his memory has become -

rejects that data, cross-references for data points and rejects it outright, the percent error through the roof.

Oh, what he would give for an explanation to hear for himself.

(Oh, what he would give to be able to feel what he should be feeling - something like anger, betrayal, compassion, even love -)

Hope turns to his computer. Readjusts his headset, rolls his head from one shoulder over to the other, his chin brushing the checked scarf hugging his throat, and speaks.

"Noel Kreiss…"


	2. ii. what's in her head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe that disconnect proves she's still a little human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll draw my own conclusions for now.

\- and for all of his instruments and intellect he can't possibly know what's in her head.

Lumina's taking up her thoughts again even as she mindlessly electrocutes a Gertrude five times with a Thunder spell, not even putting energy into the action, allowing the lightning bolts to race through her veins like vestiges of emotion -

she should feel anger at how similar the girl looks to Serah but she doesn't and if she could feel she'd be angry about that too -

what had she said?

That everything Hope understands is passed on to God.

\- she doesn't necessarily like gods, anymore, having served enough of them to know how impure their intentions usually are and the suspicion is in her head not her heart but

at least there it doesn't fester like a sore wound or a brand

and that's something she's thankful for, as much as she can be -

"Light," his voice is staticky in transmission, "everything okay?"

Undoubtedly he sees the way her movements almost slow, passing up easily an opportunity to send the damned robot reeling after it fires a pulse her way, and that undoubtedly makes him as concerned as anyone in this situation can be.

And for all of his instruments and intellect he can't possibly know what's in her head.

"Yeah," the Savior responds easily, leveling her blade at the rogue machine. "Just fine."


	3. iii. he hunts for something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he should ask for forgiveness instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm upset.

to place blame is arrogant and hypocritical.

He is well-versed in the way of Oracle Drives and prophecies but he clings to this one like never before, his knuckles white on this hope like they curl around the handles of his weapon, named for him - or what he casts himself as, in the Warren in the underground of Luxerion along with the rest of fate's castaways and

... he has had years, centuries to brood and recount his mistakes and he's not alone in this

hears enough could-have-beens in the people around him without tuning into his own head his own self-doubts and

maybe that's why he throws himself so recklessly into battle hunting from the shadows where the disciples of Etro dwell -

those that don't murder for sport and false promises -

as the believers of Bhunivelze walk in the light

(he won't give up his goddess though it is by his hand she was slain)

walk in the pact of their famous Savior, he's watched the prophecy start to finish enough that he dreams of Lightning's blood staining the cobbles and of Yeul in his arms but that's the thing, isn't it

because it was never really about Yeul at all.

she is his salvation but only in that it's one happy future he will achieve, when he caused the end of so many, the one true only one possibility but Caius had ensured all timelines converged at the same -

no, it was Lightning who sent him to begin with -

Hope's for giving him what he's named for, Serah's for facing the future with brave uncertainty -

that isn't right.

to place blame is arrogant and hypocritical.

"I need this," he says to Lightning as they duel, brokenly, quailing under a flurry of strikes, powerless against this beyond-human servant of God but she's still the woman he knew and knows

and maybe there's a glimmer of understanding when he destroys the Oracle Drive, the prophecy, the happy future dangling before him but he's done with the smoke and mirrors.

He's done.

Because he is well-versed in the way of Oracle Drives and prophecies and he knows a beautiful lie when he sees one.

five hundred years have not taken that from him.


	4. iv. they change nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the parts he doesn't need are cut away but he clings to the memories nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavily implied noehopu but ignore it if it's not your cup of tea
> 
> i just have a lot of feelings

that time was lost, yet time continued onward.

He drums his fingers against the desk, the white nearly glowing surface of some material he can't decipher glimmering in the soft light of the Ark, reflecting off the leather of his gloves.

Hope doesn't like thinking of what came before - before a hundred and sixty-nine years previous - but they sneak up on him in moments of inattention, moments of quiet in which his eyes look without seeing the numbers and images scrolling endlessly down the monitor.

He doesn't like thinking about what came before because there's something lurking around the edges of his heart where he doesn't feel what he should feel and it's something he thinks he might want to avoid. For now.

(Hope Estheim doesn't run from problems anymore but he can certainly defer them in the interest of the greater good. Symbolized by Yggdrasil, its blossoms rearing up over the ridge of his monitor.)

But find him they do, the thoughts, in those moments he can't fill with idle banter and extraneous calculations. But find him they do, the images -

there's three hundred years on file of Noel's face and Snow's loud laughter and their bravery and tanned scarred skin under his fingers in the morning

but even before that there's flashes of things that should taste like sorrow, Serah lifeless in Noel's arms, the fading fading hint of someone with blond hair and a quick tongue - crystal sculptures holding thoughts ideas beings captive, aloft -

further and further back until he's fourteen and on a train and he feels like terror but there's a kind of plastic between, the reel spins and spins but there's a groove missing that locks into feelings that will make his heart sing.

that time was lost, yet time continued onward. that time when he felt, felt with all the intensity of the living yet he's eight hundred or twenty-seven years into his life and he hasn't aged a day. that time when he was counted on,

when people needed his level-headedness to ensure they made the best decision and in comparison - in comparison to now it was then that he was the emotionally compromised wreck, crystallized hurt in his heart that doesn't thaw no matter the words of a man who shouldered the world

(they would get through this together but that promise is voided now)

and there are what-ifs more than twenty of his hands but it changes nothing, it changes nothing as to whether he is seated here now and here he is.

It is in his duty to guide and he always fulfills his duties to the letter.

(Time continues onward.)


	5. v. he thinks in numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if they're on the same side then what side is this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought i was paranoid but light observing something being up confirmed my suspicions

but who's to say she can judge anymore?

in Yusnaan it comes with surprise and doubt and a tight-lipped sort of emptiness that should ring in her bones like sorrow but the edges of it are padded.

in Yusnaan he proposes destroying the stage outright, running the risk of sacrificing hundreds of people all for the chance at one man - and she knows Snow is important to him, he's important to all of them, but there's a bad taste in her mouth when she quotes herself nonetheless, fingers curling into fists.

"'Keep your eyes front'," she says and his response bears no degree of recognition.

The Whitewood seems seven lifetimes ago but wouldn't the words stir some kind of memory?

He accepts he may have "made a few miscalculations" when the play director's plan works better than his and the whisper of static makes her suspicions grow,

not grounded in any sort of fact but the whisper of doubt takes the shape of full lips round face rose hair black dress -

what the hell does Lumina know?

Hope has never been one to weigh the value of lives mathematically, in proportion in conversion factors in -

This is cold. Even for them at the end of the word, she thinks tearing her way through a series of Niblets, that is cold and they're oh so lucky that another alternative was available.

Her job is to save souls, not commit the murder of dozens in pursuit of one - even if, in terms of Eradia, it seems Snow's would be worth more -

What if that value is informed? In head but not in heart; how would the void in her chest resonate with firework flames that consume people?

If he has somehow progressed beyond the point of weighing lives equally, who's to say she isn't just as heartless? - even more so?

but who's to say she can judge anymore?

There are a lot of years between then and now but she feels them like a jab in the ribs the closer she draws to Snow and the chaos,

but her partner's voice remains without affect and it makes those ribs ache because then who is that person, up in the Ark?

The years will change people but this - this -

She will hold her misgivings inside where they can't be observed or measured and from there she will demand answers, in the inevitable soon that Lumina appears once more.

The seed of distrust flares in her veins and begins to take root.


	6. vi. too stubborn to die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he won't sully her memory - nor her soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ruminating on thoughts and feelings about hero boy

maybe she can make it up to him.

he counts the bars over and over - one two three four five one two three four sets of two and one left over and they're cold even through the leather of his gloves like they're always cold because ice runs in his veins and he doesn't think about who's responsible for him being here.

lays on his bed stares at the ceiling during the day when Yusnaan knows hangovers and bleary-eyed stumbling after midnight revels and blood sport, when the city doesn't need him and he's left to stew on his own thoughts.

maybe he tries writing a letter, seven, eight times before he's not sure of who he's writing it to and crumples it up and throws it in the trash

or maybe he goes to the feast with circles under his eyes and no one remarks though he's sure whispers begin in glasses and through rose-painted lips, rose like the woman who crashes the festivities, dismantles a couple of Chaos-born monsters and duels him with a blade ruined by the machinations of a young girl who moves them around like playthings (he ignores her, because Lumina is a headache and a memory wrapped up in one mischievous smile) and maybe that's when his iced-over heart starts beating again because

("i'm not your sister")

she holds the pendant in hand tight but delicate, conscious and wary of its value and no one could possibly replicate the tiniest degree of awkward in approaching her sister's once-fiancé with the item they exchanged a promise over and that's when he allows himself to hope.

Because his brand burns white-hot under his sleeve and he doesn't mind going down here, she can clean up after him and that saves everyone a lot of pain and death because she knows Cie'th like she knows him, how to hit 'em where it hurts with a right hook or the right spell and combining the two only adds to her advantage.

What he doesn't compensate for is her tenacity.

He falls unconscious somewhere through their fight and when he comes to she's been whaling on him for a good long while, beating him with pulled punches and that's no way for her to knock sense into him, is it?

He knows he's got a thick skull and he needs to be told four times with diagrams and a summary to loosen his grip on what he wants but it's been a while since he gripped anything so tightly that his fingers can't be pried off with a good beating.

And he accepts, probably, that he picked the wrong fork in the road when she reminds him of just who they're trying to save. Because now more than ever they aren't bound by the laws of nature that was, nature that was supposed to be - she might have lost her life to a curse of the future but her soul is held in a god's hand, now,

and they've dealt plenty with gods.

She sure took her sweet time coming back to them and it shows in the clouds that blanket the land, too too many souls to save but if anyone can try it's her.

maybe she can make it up to him.

(if he's being honest with himself it's him who needs to apologize first.)


	7. vii. the lengths she'll go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe now her bones are made of crystal too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hecka appreciated the flight dynamics at this portion of the game but the drabble turned out implied fangnille i'm sorry

a part of her tingles like a phantom limb and she longs for the day when it'll be back.

thirteen years is a blink in a life like hers, spending fifteen hundred years asleep in stasis, but it still wears away at her edges and makes her brittle, not sharpening teeth but cracking the decaying bits off like fractured crystal, fractured bone.

She makes no headway in those eye-blink thirteen years to really be spoken of besides building this cutthroat gang from a myriad of wandering direction less bandits, her quick tongue and her patron Lady guiding her steps, which is why it pisses her off on the one hand that the soldier - well, excuse her, the savior - waltzes right in and shows her up in a few hours' time.

On the other it's relieving, because she's got days left to stop this ass-backwards ceremony even though she's also got thirteen years wasted picking crap out of her teeth with the tip of her spear.

But the woman at her side is a comforting calming presence, not the left side of her ribcage like Vanille is but her guard arm, the shield to take a blow or five when she slips up - which she does a lot, because fifteen hundred years with about a month off in between is bound to leave anyone rusty and that's the excuse she champions.

More than that it's... thrilling to watch God's Savior in action, though it seems weird to imagine this steadfast woman leading to the left and forward a step underneath the control of some deity - they'd fought and won against bonds like that, a thousand years ago, so what is she after now?

Then again -

That they did so is kind of what put this world through the grinder. If they'd gone and died, turned Cie'th or whatever instead of bringing Cocoon down - would there still be two realms, one in the sky and one spanning the earth?

(The people have forgotten what Bhunivelze - the planet, not the god - had stood for, hanging there in the sky. She knows because Hope, the kiddo she'd watched grow into a man in the fever dream of crystal sleep, shared with them the happenings of the world; standing at the base of the pillar, looking up hopeful and determined, and was it strange to be proud of him?)

The what-if is too much for her to think about. Both Gran Pulse and Cocoon, and the would-be future where the spitfire kid who actually said the word "crock" to her once with a straight face led the world to prosper; instead of entertaining the thoughts she swings her spear extra-hard at a Skeleton's skull.

She wonders how Vanille is feeling.

It's strange not knowing, because in stasis their hands were twined together and so were their thoughts. Vanille became in a thousand years the other half of her chest, the cage where her heart beats that she'll defend to the last.

Sure they'd been close but this doesn't compare. It really feels like there's a part of her missing, when she fights alongside Light who's quick to defend but not to heal with a chirp, curse with a growl, ribs cracked and her heart pried out still-beating in Luxerion.

It's her own choice, and she's lucky she isn't handling this alone (watching Lightning systematically dismantle a slew of the reanimated skeletons with tight awed lips) but it still isn't where she would want to be, though she's out here in this damned waste to protect her.

a part of her tingles like a phantom limb and she longs for the day when it'll be back.

when she will be back.


	8. viii. daddy's got the blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he doesn't remember signing up for this and maybe it's a little like having a box of puppies left on your doorstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how to write sazh.
> 
> technically this is from my second playthrough from here on out, but whatever.

it's been a thousand years but these kids still need a father.

when the airship wreckage is still steaming he remembers clawing his way out of it, the fastest his old bones have moved in a long time, because Hope was on the roof along with Serah and her companion and he's not sure what happened but he sure hopes they hung on tight.

(he's a master pilot but waves of chaos are hardly on practice exam runs.)

the surge of relief surprises him when he climbs up the side, scrambles up on tubes and pieces of metal and sees a fleck of silver, glimpses the kid (the man, now, but that hardly makes a difference because he's still the old guy) with his face to the deck, one hand held tight to the rail and the other curled around Noel's arm, surprises him because when did he adopt all these idiots?

somewhere on Cocoon with a death sentence tattooed on his chest he picked up a family that's a whole lot bigger than Dajh.

... however, they are the ones who have learned to fend for themselves while his son, his flesh and blood, has not; he has a choice to make when they're looking at him, dull-eyed and leaning on each other for support because there's no Serah, no Mog, not even their forms as they've been sucked into the Chaos -

he has a choice to make whether to go with them or stay in this tiny sphere of his jurisdiction and he chooses this - for now - because

Dajh is asleep in the cargo bay and he's gotta wait till he wakes up to make a decision.

Dajh is asleep in the cargo bay and he's gotta wait till he wakes up to make a decision. 

Dajh is asleep in the cargo bay and he's gotta wait till he wakes up to make a decision.

Dajh doesn't wake.

it's one hundred years and Dajh doesn't wake. two hundred. two hundred and fifty and his shoulders are heavy; decorated and redecorated and tore apart the carcass of the airship, building a home, as if it will invite Dajh back to him.

when Lumina explains to him the empty body he's been calling his son he can't say he's surprised. fate's had it out for him for a long long time, before he gambled his way back to his son, before he got on the train, even

(a thousand years ago and he remembers those clueless kids and thinks, how far have they come? he doesn't know, shut away as he is in his own personal hellhole as if to atone for something)

the coffer she gives him is a cruel chance at fixing things but he leaps at the opportunity. after chocolina he's learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth and it's a shot at getting his family back.

first his son, his world, and then he can figure out what he's missed.

first his son, his world, and then he can figure out what he's missed.

first his son -

(he finds no fragments of his soul and the despair he feels this time is so black he thinks he might not ever see above it)

the easy smile long since worn away, wrinkles on his face spelling letters of his griefs in chicken scratch and he's almost angry that soldier girl waltzes in and solves all of his problems again, as if he fell asleep on the job

not soldier girl anymore, savior girl, and that's one hell of a leap from a fal'Cie's human sacrifice to God's own attack dog,

and there should be weariness in her face but it's conspicuously missing; he knows she searches for her family like he hunted for his so why doesn't it show? she is strong but not that strong.

he can't figure out how to repay her until he's thought it through and realized that he's got one way with which to watch her back, a contingency plan she's probably got

he trusts her but he knows her limits; he's got an eye for that sort of thing and she won't punch him for saving her extra work, he's sure

parenting these ass-backwards kids has him bone tired even the first day back on the job, watching out for Lightning because she's driving Serah away like he did to Dajh and without even seeing it, but she won't take kindly to his advice so he'll just fix it up from the background, because he's a good guy and he owes her

(he can't help thinking of the first day after the end, no body though the weight should be shared between her two closest friends, thinks it's not just soldier girl's burden he's easing by choosing this way to lend a hand)

sure maybe they've learned a hell of a lot from mistakes they've made, but he's still the wiser one, dammit. didn't matter whether the kid became the leader of humanity, soldier girl the number one servant of God himself, or whatever the hell situations they found themselves in, because it doesn't matter what they do, they're still going to fuck up a bit and that's what parents are for.

it's been a thousand years but these kids still need a father.


End file.
